A Match Made in Hell('s Kitchen)
by NoxLamiarum
Summary: A guy can't even get a decent sandwich around here without running into a half-dead dude in a dumpster. [Hawkeye & Daredevil)


"Look, I know you think that this sandwich place is," Kate Bishop made a sweeping motion with her hands, then outrageously emphasized air-quotes, "the best place to get a sandwich on Manhattan island—"

"I don't talk like that. Do I talk like that?" Clint Barton shoved his hands in his pockets and slouched, giving her an affronted look.

"—but I want you to know that everyone says that about their favorite restaurants, and they're always wrong. Plus, this place is a dump."

"The fact that you'd even say that displays your youthful ignorance." He huffed a laugh. "And anyone who thinks _Jersey_ is habitable—"

Kate stopped, heels of her expensive shoes clacking on the uneven sidewalk. "Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?" Clint fumbled with the volume on his hearing aids, hoping the batteries weren't going dead already. In the few seconds he took his eyes off Kate, she'd gone off into an alley, a bright slash of purple dress and dark hair against the grimy background.

"Oh my god, Clint, there's a baby in this dumpster!"

"What?!" Then he was in the alley with no memory of crossing the distance, in fact he didn't so much run to Kate's side as teleport there, because someone left a baby in a goddamn dumpster—

Except it wasn't a baby. Clint stared at the dumpster's contents, then at his friend.

"This is a grown-ass man."

"I know, but look at his little cheeks—" She made as if to pinch them, but Clint batted her hand away.

"You don't know where it's—he's been," he insisted, rearranging pronouns in his mind from _unknown baby_ to _weirdo in a costume_. Not that he had that much room to judge.

"He's been in a fight, obviously, then in trash. Relax, guy's not made of used needles. " She reached into the dumpster and pressed two fingers against the stranger's throat. "He's still alive. We have to get him out."

Clint sighed. This was supposed to be an off night, but pulling a costumed dude out of a pile of trash seemed awfully Avenger-y. For all they knew, he was some wannabe supervillain. But since he and Kate weren't supervillains, or super-assholes, they worked together to drag his unconscious body out onto the sidewalk. The worst part was he still hadn't eaten dinner, and the sandwich place was only a block away.

"What now?" Kate asked him, eyebrows raised. He realized he'd been staring off into the distance thinking about salami.

"I don't know. Hospital?" That's what you did with random people you found nearly dead, right? Took them to the ER and hope the cops believe your story?

"Hang on," Kate dropped her half of the man and straightened up, getting a better look at him. "I recognize this one." She touched the horns on his mask. "This is that Daredevil dude."

"Who?"

Kate put her hands on her hips. "Don't you watch the news?"

Clint shrugged. "You do?"

"Well, I saw a meme about him, so I googled it. Can't take him to the hospital. Oh, I know!" She clapped her hands together and smiled in a way that made Clint nervous. "You can take him home, he'll fit right in with your other stray. He even looks like he also got tossed into traffic."

"Are—are you making fun of my dog?" Clint struggled to pull the man on his own. Guy was heavier than he looked.

"No, I'd never make fun of a dog. I'm making fun of you."

"Can you give me a hand here?"

"Already on it," Kate answered, raising her hand to hail a cab.

"You don't think this is a little suspicious?"

Kate Bishop shrugged. "Just tip the driver really well."

The trouble with leaving masked strangers on your couch to go get a damn sandwich was you didn't want them waking up alone in your apartment. Clint paced for a while, then perched on a stool, staring this Daredevil fellow down. Then he visited his fridge for the tenth time to discover that no new food had spontaneously generated inside it. His stomach was suffering similar woes, and it grumbled loudly. He was eying the canned dog food in the cabinet when the strange man gasped, in pain or surprise, he wasn't sure.

"Oh, thank god," Clint said, striding over to his couch. "Finally. Hey, are you hungry?"

"Wh-where am I?" the man croaked. Yeesh, he did not sound healthy.

"My apartment."

Daredevil's hands shot up to touch his own face. "You took off my mask."

"I know, I know, it's kinda a superhero taboo, but I had to make sure you didn't have any serious head injuries."

"And do I?" the man's voice was patient and low.

"Eh," Clint shrugged. "Probably not."

"I guess you took off my shirt for the same reason." Now Daredevil sounded amused. This was a guy Clint could get used to.

"That, and to bask in the glory of your magnificent abs." Clint realized he was pacing again. "Do you feel up to eating?"

"Who are you?"

"Hawkeye. I sent the other Hawkeye out for food, but that was ages ago. I think she just bailed on us."

"Hawkeye—the Avenger? There's more than one of you?" The man sat up slowly, turning his head a little, but his eyes remained unfocused. "Didn't expect an Avenger to live in a place like this."

"Well, I own several palaces, but this just feels more cozy." Clint watched the way Daredevil moved, they way his eyes didn't track on anything. "Hey, this might be a really personal question, but are you blind?"

He chuckled. "What gave me away?"

"Well, for one, you assessed my place without even looking at it. Neat trick, by the way."

Pizza-Dog chose that moment to pad over to the new stranger and put his head on his thigh. The old Lucky seal of approval. Clint watched Daredevil's reaction carefully, ready to judge him unfit for humanity and dinner if he reacted the wrong way.

But the man just slowly raised his hand, biting back a grimace of pain, to rub behind they dog's ears. "And who's this?"

"That's Lucky. He got hit by a car and ended up here. What's your story?"

"I—I made a mistake."

"Uh-huh."

"Alright, I made a series of mistakes that culminated in my being thrown into a dumpster. I can only assume you found me." He smiled, and his face transformed into something so bright and beautiful it derailed Clint's lecture on the nature of the importance of specificity.

"Do you like sandwiches?"

The change of subject took Daredevil by surprise. "Uh, yes. I do."

"Let's go get some sandwiches, then." Clint headed for his room. "I'll lend you some clothes, just don't rip my shirt with your muscles, okay?"

"I'll try not to," he laughed. "So, do I just call you Hawkeye?"

"Clint is fine. What about you? Or should I just call you Daredevil in public?"

The man hesitated for a long moment. "Matt. Hey, thanks—"

"Don't mention it." He clipped a leash on Lucky's collar while Matt changed.

"Do you—" Now the guy almost seemed embarrassed, "Do you have a pair of sunglasses I could borrow?"

"Yeah, but, uh, well. Never mind."

"What?"

"Kate, the other Hawkeye, left them here, so. But hey, not like you'll be able to see how ridiculous they are." He handed Matt a large pair with bright purple frames. The other man put them on.

"How do I look?"

"Hmm," Clint stepped back and considered him. "Actually, I think purple's your color."


End file.
